


paint thinner

by lazarov



Series: you don't make art out of good intentions [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Art, Drugs, Football | Soccer, M/M, Sex, University, broke-ass student life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:02:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarov/pseuds/lazarov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"All of your tattoos are wingdings.  Is that supposed to be ironic?  Being the artist that you are?" Louis laughs, not unkindly, as he carefully traces a finger along Zayn's peace sign.  He does it gently, compulsively.  Zayn’s heart is pumping hard in his chest - weed has always made him crave the feeling of skin on skin and he has to keep himself from pushing himself against Louis’ touch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	paint thinner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Randominity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randominity/gifts).



> I said I was gonna write this and then I... totally didn't. My bad. 
> 
> Part one of two or maybe even three depending on how much sex and fighting about art and football I feel like writing (obviously the answer to those questions is almost always: "a lot")

 

 

 

...

"No, just… _no_ ," Mark says, waving his hand dismissively at the portrait.  “I don’t know why I ever offered Jakob a spot here, he’s producing such _shit_ lately.” 

They move on to the next canvas (though Zayn has to admit that he didn't even bother looking at the one before it, or the one before that - he'd rather just stand there, swirling his champagne and staring into the tiny golden tornado it creates in his glass). 

"Zayn?" Zayn jumps, nearly spilling his drink.  

Mark's staring at him expectantly.  

He completely missed the question.  

Zayn stares at the canvas in front of them, a mess of red and black and midnight blue, and tries to guess what it might have been.

"The strokes," Mark encourages gently, "what do you think?"

"They're…" Zayn tries to find words but he's too fucking _bored_ to bother forming a real opinion.  All he comes up with is bullshit. "They're strong?  Very… purposeful."  

Mark just takes a moment to absorb his statement, nodding, then moves on wordlessly to the next painting.  

Zayn stays where he is and glances around the party.  

This is his life now: kissing ass with London's finest ass-kissers.  He knows it's the only way to make it in the art world these days - you don't become a successful painter by _painting_ , you do it by marketing yourself.  You have to sell them your persona before they'll buy any of your art.  

Girls in slinky black dresses perform rehearsed laughs (head thrown back, hair flipped enigmatically over their shoulder, mouth open to show off white, white teeth - he knows the tricks because he _does_ the tricks).  

Men in obscenely expensive, pre-distressed skinny jeans ("Oh no, honey, these paint stains are from working on _Self Portrait 027_ last week," they lie) pick at their cuticles disinterestedly and strike up blasé conversations with tiny upper-middle-aged (and upper-upper-class) women with Joan Rivers noses and Anna Wintour haircuts.  

Before Mark can bring him on another painful round of air kissing, Zayn catches Harry's eye from across the room, begs to be rescued.  On cue, Harry ambles over.  Halfway across the room, in one clean movement, he snatches somebody's half-drunk flute off of the nearest table and downs it in one go, ignoring the side-eye the girl next to him shoots him under her fringe (Harry is magnificently adept at ignoring side-eyes, as far as Zayn is concerned it is one of his greatest virtues).  

He smacks a kiss on Zayn’s cheek.

"Fuck this," Zayn greets him.  Harry nods.

Harry has even less incentive to show up to these things than Zayn does (aside from the free champagne), but he always shows.  He’s not the one fucking the middle-aged gallery owner.  

Harry isn't anyone's protégé.  At least Zayn has Mark to parade him around, to tell him when to double-cheek-kiss and when to look disinterested and when to name-drop.  Harry just shows up and drinks for free, gazes at the art with his head cocked to the side.  It’s almost like he _wants_ to be there, almost like he actually gives a shit about the art and the people and, god forbid, _the conversation_.

"Lame crowd tonight."  Harry loops an arm around Zayn's waist and they begin to weave through the gallery.  He pauses once they pass, hidden from the rest of the room, behind an enormous bronze sculpture of a wolf wearing a circlet of human teeth ( _the symbolism, it hurts_ ) and looks Zayn up and down. "You alright, mate?   _The scene getting you down_?"  

Zayn runs a hand under his beanie and scratches at his overgrown hair.

"Just getting a bit tired, is all."

Harry nods sagely, squinting at him.  He places a steadying hand on Zayn's shoulder, runs his thumb across his clavicle. "Don't burn out on me, kiddo.  I know, _you know_ , you won't have to schmooze for much longer.   _You're close_."

"No promises," Zayn sighs.  He finishes his champagne, and they stand together in silence.  

It's always been their ritual at these things, to sneak off and cattily poke fun at everyone and act like beautiful, grumpy children.  Completely self-assured in their talent, they wear their confidence, their disdain for the scene, like warpaint.

Mark's voice gasps from behind them, "I was looking for you!  You completely disappeared!"

Zayn groans. 

"Go be a good show pony," Harry's mouth quirks into a gentle smile.  "I'll text you later and make sure you got home alright."  

Before Zayn can respond, Harry adds, "Back to _your home_ , you got me?"

 

 

 

 

...

 

Zayn arrives at school in last night's clothes, casually late at half-ten, and nudges through the doors of the dining hall.  His hands are shoved in the pockets of his jeans giving off the blasé image that he would never admit he works so hard for.  Truthfully, though, he's fingering the last of his change, covertly counting off pounds and pence and trying to do the math ( _sales tax, what about sales tax?_ ) to figure out what he can afford for breakfast.

He slides into line at the Costa and while he's staring at his shoes his phone buzzes.  

Zayn glances at the screen.

**you didn't respond to my texts last night**

Buzz.

**you better not have gone home with him zayn**

Buzz.

**it's not ok zayn**

Of fucking course it's not okay.  He knows that.  

He doesn't need Harry to remind him that, swallowed-down into the deepest part of him, he knows that these things he's doing now (the robotic, filthy sex and the selling out just so he can try to prove to himself, to mum and dad, that he can do this, that _people can make money doing what they love, just give it time_ ), whether a year from now or when he's fifty, will be what keeps him awake at night.

" _Hello?_ " The wall-eyed girl behind the counter is staring at him.  "What can I get for you?"

"Uh," Zayn grunts, trying to remember his math.  He glances desperately at the display case.  "I'll have a… sausage roll?"

The girl just nods and half-rolls her eyes.  "£1.35."

He palms his change and digs through it, counting… "Fuck," he breathes.  "I'm ten pence short.  Is there anything else…?"  Zayn's feels his cheeks get hot and he's ready to drop the change on the counter, leave the stupid fucking pastry and run.

"Here," a hand holding a coin appears in front of Zayn's face.

"Oh.” Zayn takes it.  Without turning around, he shoves the change at the girl, snatches the greasy paper bag, and stalks off.  

It’s only once he rounds the corner into the Arts corridor (face still hot with embarrassment at the charity and the fucking, the fucking... indignity of it all) that Zayn pauses and sneaks a glance back at the line.  The boy is wearing a shiny blue and white football kit (TOMLINSON, the back declares), and Zayn’s eyes snap from thin ankles to bony elbows to neatly-trimmed hair to pointy nose.  Handsome, Zayn realizes, and an extra wave of tingly embarrassment spreads through his chest.

TOMLINSON glances back at him over his shoulder and catches Zayn’s eye.  The corner of his mouth quirks into a smile.  

Zayn feels his face go a different kind of red.  

He yanks his beanie further down over his forehead and shoots a scowl in return before shuffling down the Arts corridor.

 

 

 

 

...

 

Zayn tosses his keys on the the counter and searches through the kitchen cupboards for coffee.

"I'm forever blowing bubbles," he hums to himself, frustrated, his grumbling stomach providing accompaniment.  "Pretty bubbles in the air," he sighs, finding the nearly-empty packet under a nearly-empty box of Alpen.  He dumps the grounds into a filter and shoves the filter into his pathetic, thrifted coffee machine, slamming the lid shut.  

It's okay that he can't afford food, it's totally fine, because that way he can stay nice and fucking skinny for the schmoozers and critics and buyers.   _It’s just heroin chic without having to spend your money on heroin._ (Whenever he tells himself this, of course, he’s never entirely sure whether or not he’s being facetious or honest.) 

His phone buzzes.

"What's up?" Harry's voice hums in his ear.

"Fucking _hungry_ is what's up," Zayn sighs, collapsing onto his (only) kitchen chair.  "I know this is news to you, but I'm broke.  What's up with you?"

"I'm not even going to get into how angry at you I am for not responding to my texts.  Are we still on for today?"

"Today," Zayn repeats slowly.  

"Hair?" Harry’s kind enough to hide his annoyance.  

"Oh, right!  Yeah, yeah, of course, if that's okay with you?  I'm good for any time."

"Cool, I'll be over in an hour."  Harry hangs up before Zayn can ask him to bring food.  Any food.  Cat food, for all he fucking cares.

Harry is Harry, so 'in an hour' means he arrives in forty-five minutes carrying a fuckload of homemade sandwiches.

"You're an angel," Zayn grins, grabbing a cheese sandwich from the top of the pile that Harry's set tumbling across the table.

"Right?" Harry agrees, flopping his backpack onto the floor with a clunk.  He unpacks its contents, rolls of scissors and texturizers and straight razors.  "If it weren't for me, you'd be even skinnier than you are.  Which is too skinny.  So.  You're welcome."

"Luff you," Zayn sighs around a mouthful of American cheese and starchy white bread.

He can see Harry carefully glancing around his apartment, and he's immediately aware that the cupboards are standing open from his coffee quest, bare and stark and naked.  The image strikes him as a little obscene, a little bit sad, like accidentally seeing your gran getting out of the shower.

"Don't let it get this bad," Harry admonishes quietly.  "It's not… You don't need to live like this.  This, it's -- it's a fucking choice, you know."  Harry's eyes are dark.  He kneels down and examines the state of Zayn's hair, avoiding his eyes, his hands tilting Zayn's head left, right, up, down.

"I'm not --" Zayn tries to argue, but his mouth is full and he knows Harry doesn't care about his excuses either way.

"I'm just saying you're not as fucking cool as you think you are, living like a bum off the occasional sale and depending on rent money from your mum and dad and fucking around with, with -- I mean, God forbid they knew about --"

"I get it," Zayn manages, forcing himself to swallow.

Harry shakes his head, shakes away the crease in his brow.  He kisses the top of Zayn's head, his breath hot and nostalgic in Zayn's hair.

Something far-off and half-remembered aches in Zayn’s chest.  

"No matter what, I love you, okay? So.  What are we doing today?  Are we keeping with the high-and-tight Hitler youth thing you have going on?" 

Zayn snorts in offense (and also maybe in agreement) and takes another bite of his sandwich.  He chews for a while, thinking, collecting himself, then swallows before answering.  "I'm thinking maybe clean-cut?  Nothing weird."

" _Nothing weird_ ," Harry mock-gasps, clutching at his hair, "do mine ears deceive me?  What have you done with the Zayn I know and love?"

"Shhh," hushes Zayn, giving Harry a consoling pat on the head.  "It'll be okay."

 

 

 

 

...

 

He leans forward against the chain-link fence, his chin resting on his crossed arms, hoodie pulled up over his head, shadowing his eyes like he’s some kind of thug.  It’s dusk, and standing alone at the edge of the pitch Zayn can feel the humid chill creep up his sleeves.  He pulls them over his hands.

The team is split into two for practice, half the boys wearing garish reflective pinnies.  Tomlinson is out there, kit uncovered, running one-touch drills. Zayn tries to absorb everything about his movement, his style of play.   _Central midfielder, strong passer.  Always aware, head on a swivel.  Quick, very quick._  The rest of the boys are in tracksuit bottoms and t-shirts - Tomlinson’s the only one in full kit, right down to the fucking stripey blue socks. Zayn smiles to himself for a moment, then looks down, self-consciously rubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand.

A whistle blows.  Zayn’s eyes flick back up.  The drill has stopped and team has congregated in a shuffling, awkward circle.  Zayn scans the backs of their heads.  He doesn’t see Tomlinson.

"You think you're fuckin' Maradona, lad?" The coach shouts, stomping onto the pitch to jab a finger into the chest of a floppy-haired boy in a pinny.

"No, sir," the boy shakes his head, backing away.  “Sorry, sir.”

The coach gives him a warning, before Zayn hears him say, “You okay, kid?”  The group parts a little, and there’s Tomlinson, sitting in the grass, green stains up the shins of his socks.  He’s rubbing at his left ankle, thumb worrying at a spot under the edge of his boots.

The coach leans down and speaks to him, but Zayn’s too far away to hear their conversation. He sees Tomlinson shake his head at something the coach says. All Zayn can tell for sure is that their eyes are serious.  

Heart beating hard in his chest, he shoves his hands in his pockets and walks away from the pitch before he sees whether or not Tomlinson gets up.

 

 

 

 

...

 

Zayn gets home late from Mark’s, but he's wired, not ready for bed.  So he makes a cup of tea.  And thinks about Tomlinson.  

He tries to pass the time.

He wanders around his empty apartment, examines the half-finished sketches lining the living room, propped up against the walls.  Thinks about Tomlinson.  

For a little while he thinks about how hungry he is, until his mind quickly wanders back to Tomlinson.

Eventually it gets too late, and he gets too tired to drive himself crazy any longer.  He allows himself to fall asleep on his thrifted, threadbare couch.

(Listening to West Ham highlights, their steady staccato rhythm pouring out of his flickering TV, shutting out the Tomlinson).

 

 

 

 

...

 

For the first time in a week, there’s change in his pocket.  

It’s a rare, beautiful feeling, Zayn realizes, the feeling of change shifting its weight back and forth against your leg while you walk down the street.  It makes him stand a little taller, chin up a little higher.  It gives him a _fuck with me_ smirk that tugs at the corners of his lips.

He made a sale last night, £400 for Dirty Lillies (a portrait of three young girls with bright eyes and battered faces that he had painted while he was in a _mood_ \-- he was embarrassed to let Mark even exhibit it, but Mark had insisted).  He had told him, while they were lying in bed, post-coital and smoking and paying more attention to their mobile phones than each other, that a friend of his (“He _knows_ people, darling.”) had made the purchase shortly after they had left the gallery the night before.

Mark, of course, took his cut.  But £280 was nothing to scoff at, and making a sale like that, to someone who matters.  Zayn isn’t exactly sure who the buyer is -- when he picked up the canvas the next day he seemed to be just some guy in chinos and nice shoes --but if Mark says he’s important then he must be.  

Maybe Mark might be able to make sure this isn’t just a fucking pipe dream.  

Maybe it won’t keep him awake at night after all.

In line at the Costa, he’s relieved to see that the wall-eyed girl isn’t behind the register and orders four sausage rolls from a grumpy middle-aged woman wearing a hairnet.  

 _Living like a king, Malik._  

“You got enough this time?” 

Zayn groans and turns around.  Tomlinson is smiling at him, this time wearing normal human clothes instead of his football kit.  

“Yeah,” Zayn says apologetically, grabbing his order from the woman’s impatient, outstretched hand.  “Yeah, sorry about that actually, I didn’t mean to -”

“Next,” the woman spits.

“You can apologize in a second, let’s not keep Mary waiting - large coffee please, Mary, and a carrot muffin if you don’t mind, thanks love,” he hands her a note (“Keep the change, darling.”) then shifts his attention back to Zayn.  “Go on, then.”

“Right, well.  I’m sorry for not saying thank you before, I was just... Yeah.  So.  Thank you.”  Zayn punctuates his mixed apology/thank you with a stiff little half-bow like he’s never interacted with another human before.

“S’Alright,” Tomlinson shrugs, smirking at him. “Come sit.”  He beckons with a crooked finger and Zayn follows him obediently to a nearby table, noticing the hitch in his step.  He’s favouring his left foot.

“No kit today,” Zayn remarks.  He tries to say it evenly, glancing over Tomlinson’s rolled up sleeves show off slim wrists, three buttons left undone to show off tanned skin -- honestly: the kid looks fucking good when he’s not wearing a shiny polyester monstrosity.  

“No kit today,” Tomlinson agrees grimly, sipping his coffee.  “I’m on a little break from football this week.  Maybe it’ll mean I’ll find the time to show up to class, perish the thought.”  He wrinkles his nose.

"Right.  Shit.  How's your ankle?" Zayn asks.  Tomlinson cocks an eyebrow at him.

"My ankle is… sore," He says slowly, eyeing Zayn.  He sets down his coffee.

"Fuck," Zayn groans, rubbing his eyes.  He yanks his beanie further down on his forehead, as if it could cover his blush.  "That was awkward of me.  I'm sorry."

"Yeah," Tomlinson nods, confused.  “Yes -- what was your name?”

"Zayn Malik --   _I saw you_ ," he quickly explains.  "The other day.  I saw you fuck up your ankle at practice, and -"

"Louis Tomlinson.  You were watching me practice, _Zayn Malik_?" Louis is halfway between impressed and horrified.

"Yeah, I mean.  I mean, you bought me a sausage roll and you were wearing your kit and I just thought…" Zayn fumbles, waving his hands through the air, frustrated and embarrassed.

Louis starts laughing, cutting him off.  "Okay, okay.  I’ll give you a pass, Zayn Malik.  That's reasonably un-weird.  Non-weird."

“I’m sorry,” Zayn says again.  He’s edged halfway off his chair, ready to bolt.  

“Honestly,” Louis smiles.  “It’s fine.”

“Okay,” Zayn says slowly.  

“You’re funny,” Louis assures him.

“Um." Zayn just looks at him dumbly and pulls his beanie down to his eyebrows.  

Louis just shrugs and unwraps his muffin.  “It’s not that weird.  You’ll be watching me play on telly soon enough, anyway.”

Zayn isn’t quite sure what to say to that ( _‘I wouldn’t doubt it’_ sounds too much like flirting, which is an endeavour Zayn usually tries to mystify as much as possible) so he too unwraps his food and, for a while, they eat in silence.

“How rude of me, I forgot to ask -- what do you even do, aside from begging for change like a vagrant?” Louis asks, sucking crumbs off his thumb.

“Art school,” Zayn responds robotically.  He’s used to this by now, answering that awkward fucking awful question.  

 _What do you do?_ is just a proxy for _how do you plan to make money and feed a family like a responsible human being?_

 _Art school_ is just a proxy for _I, Zayn Malik, plan to never have a steady source of income for the rest of my life._

“You’re an artist?” Louis asks, leaning forward in his seat, eyes bright.  He seems honestly interested rather than just being polite -- it’s not a response Zayn’s used to.  Nor is Zayn used to being looked at so intently.  “Painting?  Sculpting?”

“Trying to be,” Zayn nods, taken aback by Louis interest. He fidgets, picking at his thumbnail. “Painting.  It’s... the goal.  In theory.  At the end of this.” He waves a hand in the general direction of the arts building.

“Are you any good?” 

Against his better judgment, Zayn sighs and explains, “I have this really tiny exhibition at a friend’s gallery.  I don’t know.  I mean.  People seem to like my stuff.”

Louis listens, nodding.  He sets down his coffee, chews at his lip.  Zayn is momentarily distracted by the collarbones peeking out of the collar of Louis’ shirt, until Louis asks, “Can we go?”

It is only once Louis ambles off toward his Poli Sci class that Zayn realizes what a monumentally bad idea it would be to bring Louis, beautiful fucking tanned fucking football player Louis, into Mark’s turf. _Indescribably, career-endingly, ritual-suicide bad,_ Zayn decides.

It’s probably extra-bad that, once the request was put on the table, he had immediately agreed.

 

 

 

 

...

 

Luckily for Zayn’s career, they don’t make it to the gallery.  Instead, they grab pizza and make it an entire half-mile down the road to Zayn’s flat (which is littered with half-finished paintings, anyway).  It is only once they arrive that they decide that the only option is to get high and lie down on the hardwood floor. 

"All of your tattoos are wingdings.  Is that supposed to be ironic?  Being the artist that you are?" Louis laughs, not unkindly, as he carefully traces a finger along Zayn's peace sign.  He does it gently, compulsively.  Zayn’s heart is pumping hard in his chest - weed has always made him crave the feeling of skin on skin and he has to keep himself from pushing himself against Louis’ touch. 

She's a cruel drug.  Weed has always made him crave the warmth of others while also making him feel incredibly, mind-racingly self-conscious about it.

"Maybe they're ironic," Zayn suggests, rolling his eyes.  He shivers a little.

"Are they?"

"Dunno." The corner of Zayn's mouth quirks.  The honest truth is that _he really doesn't_.  

"In that case.  That's very… artsy of you," Louis says, a little too high to think of anything cleverer than that.  

"We'll see how artsy I am," Zayn sighs, sitting up to take a sip of his tea.  "Can't sell shit lately.  Starting to think art school, an art career, is a complete pipe dream," he makes a face at the cliché.  "I'm just so fucking tired of being shuffled around like a, like a… like a show dog or something."  The THC has enveloped the portion of Zayn's brain that is dedicated to similes and has lulled it into a coma.  Louis doesn't notice, though, and is still tracing the peace sign on his arm.

"Can't you just find a career where your worth isn't, like, based on what others say it is?"

"What, like football?  How is that any different?"

"People know I'm good because I'm good.  I know I'm good because I'm good.   _You_ only know you're good when people _tell you_ you're good.  I can tear down the pitch and bend the ball around some poor fucker who doesn't even know what hit him, and, sure, the shouts and applause help, but I don't _need_ them for me to know I'm fucking good.  But you, you don't know you're amazing unless they tell you.  You can think you're amazing, but you can never be sure.   _I can._   _I_ can be sure.  Why would you want to have that kind of subjective bullshit hanging over your head?"  Louis is waving his hand at the ceiling to illustrate his point.  Zayn snatches the joint from his fingers and takes a heavy pull, half-listening.  "I mean, fucking, fucking _Duchamp_!  Do you honestly want to argue that a fucking urinal is art?  Or at least, like, _objectively good_ art?"

"I don't think that's fair.  What about, like, Picasso?" Zayn asks, exhaling and feeling the body high stretch through his limbs and into his fingertips.  

He knows Louis is right, Louis is vocalizing all the criticisms and complaints he feels creeping through his head every time he's listening to another promoter talk about some shitty sculptor's _revolutionary, pre-symbolic representations of femininity_ or some bullshit like that.  

But it's fun playing devil's advocate.

"He's good, sure.  Objectively good.  But the reason everyone seems to think he's good, why everyone knows his name, is because the Steins took him in as a pet," Louis snorts.  Zayn sits up on his elbows, squinting at him.  He's not high enough not to notice that it's a little fucking amazing that Louis, Louis the footballer, is namedropping Gertrude Stein and Duchamp.  

Louis just ignores his raised eyebrow, takes the joint and continues, "It's all marketing.   _Always_."  He takes a drag, holds it for a few moments, then finally concedes, "I don't know.  I'm pretty high."

Zayn snorts a laugh then flops back down beside him.

"And I really shouldn't be smoking," Louis sighs, taking another small drag then passing the spliff to Zayn.  Paint stains against grass stains, their fingers thread, lingering for a moment during the hand-over.  

Zayn takes a puff, "That's right.  Louis the footballer.  You've got to preserve your virgin lungs.'"

Louis coughs a laugh.  

"Uh huh, exactly," Louis nods gravely, rolling over on his side to face Zayn.  He tucks his arm under his head and shifts around, trying to find a comfortable spot on the floor.  "Don't you have any proper furniture?  Not all of us have silly hats to cushion our heads," Louis reaches up sneaks a hand under Zayn's beanie, ruffling his hair.  

After a few moments Zayn's very-high, very-self-conscious brain realizes Louis' fingers have slowed to the point where he's basically just threaded his fingers through Zayn's hair and is slowly petting him.  Zayn's hair is thick, and he can feel the heavy friction of product catching on skin and under nails when Louis drags his fingers across his scalp.  

Zayn's rolled his head to the side and he's looking at Louis intently, lips slightly parted.

"Do you want a blowback?" Zayn asks, cutting the silence.

"Okay," Louis says quietly, as though he's not entirely sure what he's agreeing to.  Zayn lifts the spliff and puts it in his mouth backwards.  "What are you," Louis starts, but Zayn places a finger on his lips, then a hand on his cheek, and pulls him forward until his lips are brushing against the filter.  

Smoke streams from the tip, twisting in the candlelight toward the ceiling, as Zayn begins to gently blow.  Louis wraps his lips around the filter, inhaling as deep, eyes screwed shut like he's focusing hard on not coughing and embarrassing himself.  

Zayn's eyes stay open, glossy but focused on Louis' own.  

When he can't inhale any more, Louis flops onto his back, holding in the hit, and Zayn pops the spliff out of his mouth.

" _Oh_ ," Louis sighs, exhaling, and Zayn can nearly hear his heart pounding in his chest.  "Wow."  When rolls his head to the side Zayn's smiles at him (really, honestly smiles at him) then leans over and presses their lips together.  

Zayn's body high is intense, and the feeling (soft, warm, wet, open lips on his own) is simultaneously overwhelming and welcoming.  Zayn shifts, his knees knocking against Louis', and runs his fingers over Louis' jaw.

"Sorry," Zayn says slowly, and he winces, his voice too loud in his own head.  "Sorry," he whispers.  "I just, I've just really wanted to -"

Louis shoves his mouth onto Zayn's, their teeth knocking a little.  Zayn presses against him, feeling Louis' warmth through his thin tank and his own button-down.  

The heat of their bodies and the haze of the pot makes him tingle, makes him feel like there's something fluttering in his chest, like his core is swirling with iron filings and they're all hopelessly drawn to Louis', like, _magnetism_.  

Maybe he's just really, really fucking high.  

Louis' lips part, and Zayn can feel Louis' tongue slick across his bottom lip before biting at it.  

He inhales sharply at the gentle, foggy pain.  He's suddenly aware of the bleary ache in his hips, in his elbows, where his body meets the wood floor.

"I have - just," Zayn sits up, making a tiny displeased sound when he pulls his mouth away from Louis', "just come on."  

Zayn stubs the abandoned joint out on an ashtray and pulls Louis to his feet, leading him across the room.

"I thought you slept on the couch," Louis admits quickly, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he's able to censor himself.

"Only usually," Zayn laughs, before pushing Louis onto the bed.  They giggle into each others mouths, the buzz taking over, before Zayn presses himself into Louis, halting his laughter with a sudden, quiet moan.  Zayn grinds against him again, slowly, and the weed makes his blood travel slowly, lazily toward his cock. 

Louis rises up to meet him.  

It's been a while since he's done this, and he's is trying not to appear overeager, but the press of his cock against his jeans (already much harder than Louis is) betrays him.

"I don't usually…" Louis begins, then pauses, and Zayn almost says, yeah, me neither except he has no idea how Louis actually intends to end that sentence.   _'I don't usually have sex while stoned'_? Yes, okay, Zayn could probably 70% agree to that.   _'I don't usually have sex with near-strangers'_?  Okay, well, maybe agreed.   _'I don't usually fool around with lads'_?  Well.  Fuck.

But Louis doesn’t finish his thought, and instead says, “You don’t have a boxspring,” then, “that’s pretty artsy I guess.”  And then begins to laugh.  Zayn stares at him for a few moments before joining in, his laugh muffled against Louis’ clavicle.

“Yes,” he agrees, running the tip of his tongue up Louis’ throat, “it’s a little bit artsy.”  Louis’ fingers sneak their way under Zayn’s waistband and Zayn jumps a little in surprise.  They slowly unbutton his jeans, hands working carefully between thrusts of denim on denim.

Zayn pulls away a little and slides his hands under Louis’ tank and Louis pulls his hands from between their hips to allow Zayn to lift it over his head before turning his attention to unbuttoning Zayn’s shirt.

“This is really hard when you’re -” Louis mutters, cut off by a kiss.  

Hands pull down trousers, pull off beanies, pull at hair.

It’s only once Zayn has Louis in his mouth that he realizes how much he’s missed the feeling of having sex because he _wants_ to.  

He wonders, briefly, if it’s a little sick that he doesn’t think twice anymore about doing it when he has to.

 

 

 

 

...

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to retroparamour for reading this over and riffing on it with me. You're a doll.


End file.
